


Poker in a Pitch-Dark Room

by gaslightgallows (hearts_blood)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Doubt, Drinking, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Missing Scene, One Shot, Prayer, Prompt Fill, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 15:11:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19396735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearts_blood/pseuds/gaslightgallows
Summary: The night after the Apocalypse That Wasn't, an angel and a demon go home together, each of them wondering what the Almighty has planned for them next.





	Poker in a Pitch-Dark Room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Clockwork_Night](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clockwork_Night/gifts).



> Written for Costofthecrown, for the prompt “I’m willing to wait for it.”
> 
> I have at least two “Night Before the Very First Day of the Rest of Their Lives” fics going right now (possibly three), and this is definitely the gentlest of those particular works-in-progress.
> 
> If you're over on Tumblr, please consider following me at [gaslightgallows.tumblr.com](https://gaslightgallows.tumblr.com/) for more fic, reblogs about writing, and lots of randomness. 
> 
> I also write original fiction! You can find it at [aflinley.com](https://www.aflinley.com/).
> 
> Thank you for reading and especially for commenting. Comments are love. ♥

Aziraphale’s spirits, which had been momentarily lifted by the appearance of the bus, sank once more. “I suppose I should get him to drop me off at the bookshop,” he said, reluctantly. He’d been enjoying the easy camaraderie with his friend. It was something he had been missing, these last eleven years since the birth of the Antichrist, and after what had happened that afternoon, he really had no idea when the next time…

His thoughts trailed off when he noticed Crowley looking at him with a worried expression. (Sunglasses or no sunglasses, he could always read Crowley’s expressions.) 

“It burned down,” said the demon, very gently. “Remember?”

For a moment, Aziraphale stared at him, stunned, and then his gaze drifted away. In all the commotion of the day, he actually had forgotten all about that. Not too surprising, what with being discorporated and needing to find a host body on very short notice, and helping to save the world, and now in addition to probably being out of a job, he was also effectively homeless both on Earth and in Heaven. Not something he’d ever thought he would have to contemplate…

“You can stay at my place,” Crowley continued, his voice still inexpressibly gentle, almost, dare he think it, tender. “If you like.”

_I would like. I’d like very much._

He heard the words ringing in his mind and wasn’t sure where they had come from, but he so very badly wanted to say them aloud. Crowley had never, in all their centuries of knowing one another and being friends and being… And after all, it was one thing to visit for a few hours, but quite another thing to… 

His heart thumped rapidly in his chest, and it was a new heart, too, as vigorous as an eleven-year-old boy could manage to make, eager to leap out of his ribcage, or so it felt, and proclaim to the world, that—

“…I don’t think my side would like that,” Aziraphale replied softly, with a hint of a hunted smile, and felt his brand-new heart break, just the way the old one had, so many times over. 

Crowley only looked at him steadily, and behind the lenses, Aziraphale could sense his exhaustion, his sorrow, his compassion and his understanding. His love. “You don’t have a side anymore,” said Crowley simply. “Neither of us do. We’re on our own side.” He sighed and turned towards the headlamps of the oncoming bus. “Like Agnes said, we’re going to have to choose our faces wisely.”

Aziraphale stared straight ahead into the dark woods across from the churchyard as Crowley flagged down the bus. 

He was thinking, and thinking rapidly, and after a hard, disorienting day and with half a bottle of wine coursing through his veins, it was a bit of a challenge. 

Between the sudden homelessness, the loss of his cherished centuries-old book collection, Crowley’s unexpected invitation with all its own centuries of history behind it, and the realization that Aziraphale had truly cut himself off from his own kind by throwing in his lot with humanity, and, by extension or by hook or by crook, with Crowley…

It was a lot to contend with, in the space of ten seconds.

But by the eleventh second, he’d made up his mind. 

As Aziraphale sat down on the uncomfortable bus seat, his left hand came to rest, very lightly, on Crowley’s knee. “I’ll stay the night with you,” he said, as steadily as he could muster, “if I may.”

Crowley said nothing, just slouched a little lower in his seat and let his hand cover Aziraphale’s.

*** 

The trouble with having never once invited Aziraphale to his flat before, and never intending to ever invite Aziraphale to his flat, was that Crowley had approximately one and _only_ one of everything. And he was too exhausted to bother gesturing additional chairs or perhaps a nice sofa into existence.

He mulled the problem over while they got off the bus and made their way upstairs, barely noticing that they were still holding hands, and continued to do so until he opened his door.

Aziraphale took an instinctively wide step over the threshold without even thinking, and then turned and looked down at the floor. "Good Lord, what—?”

“Remains of an unwelcome guest,” said Crowley. “Sounds like the name of a post-modern art installation. Some of my best work, postmodernism.” 

“Yes, I thought I recognized your handiwork in that movement.” Aziraphale looked at the single, almost throne-like chair, and remained standing awkwardly until Crowley all but pushed him into sitting down. “But this is your spot.” 

“It’s just a chair, angel. You want something? Tea, scotch – I’ve got a tin of chocolate biscuits around here somewhere – an’ the fridge is full.” 

“Full of what? You don’t even eat.” 

“Nah, but ‘s what a fridge is meant for, bein’ full of food. Full of—” Crowley waved his hand absently. “—whatever. So. Want anything?”

“Anything’s fine, thanks.” 

Crowley waited for a second to see if he would change his mind, and when he didn’t, shrugged and retrieved a bottle of very old Scotch and a pair of cut-glass tumblers. 

“Good Lord,” said Aziraphale, catching site of the bottle. “Is that—?” 

“Yup. Filched it from you during the Blitz. Didn’t mean to, but we weren’t exactly ourselves that night.” Crowley poured out two generous measures and handed one to his friend, who looked more tired than Crowley could ever recall see him. “You okay?” 

“I—yes, I...” Aziraphale paused to take a gulp. “Not really.” 

“Yeah.” 

Crowley sat on the edge of the black table and pulled one long leg up, resting his drink on his bent knee. The other leg dangled, almost managing to touch the floor. “We really have gone and fucked ourselves pretty thoroughly, this time.” 

“And it doesn’t seem to be over yet. There’s still Agnes Nutter’s prophecy to decipher.”

“Right.” Crowley drank his whiskey and filled his glass again. “So. You’re the prophecy expert. What do you think?”

Aziraphale spoke at length about what he thought it meant and what he thought they should do, and Crowley listened, and the very old Scotch was barely a memory before he was done.

When the angel finally fell silent, Crowley got up and walked around the table a few times, and then stopped next to the chair. “You really think it has something to do with us?”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows drew together as he looked into his glass. “I think,” he said, feeling his words carefully, “that I was meant to retrieve it. That it’s part of the Gr… never mind.”

“You can say it, I’m not gonna get mad again.”

“You’re not going to start swearing blasphemously and insisting that I run away to Alpha Centauri with you?”

“No promises, but I think I can hold off until tomorrow. At least on the swearing.”

Aziraphale’s smile went from amused to confused to fond to afraid, all in the space of a breath that neither of them needed but that they both seemed to be holding.

Finally, Crowley spoke and spared them both anymore of that intolerable moment. “You believed me.”

“Hmm?”

“When I told you about the bookshop. You still haven’t seen the place. I could’ve just… made it up.”

“To be honest, it never crossed my mind.”

“That I’d lie?”

“Of course, why would you lie to me?”

“Because I’m a demon, and according to you, that’s what demons do.” Crowley leaned on the ornate scrollwork and loomed over Aziraphale companionably. “I know this is going to be the surprise of your eternal life, but I almost never lie. It’s too easy, and it’s boring. I generally tell people the truth, and if they decide to go ahead and be tempted after they know everything, well then, that’s not my fault, is it?”

“…I suppose not.”

“And I don’t lie to you. Ever.”

“I know,” Aziraphale murmured, before he could stop himself. Then he quickly set aside his glass and stood up. “Yes, well… my worldview has certainly gotten rather rearranged, these last few days.”

“Yours and mine both.” Tiredly, Crowley took off his glasses and dropped them on the table. 

It took them both a minute to realize what he’d done, and during the whole of that minute, their eyes were locked. To Crowley, it looked as if Aziraphale couldn't decide whether to burst into tears, fly into a raging panic, or kiss him full on the mouth. Or some interesting combination of all three. 

In the end, though, he did nothing of the sort.

Instead, he yawned. 

“Well, that’s new,” said Crowley, very surprised.

“Yes. This new body seems to—oh, goodness...” Aziraphale politely covered his mouth with his hand. “To fatigue rather quickly. And err—sorry, I think I need, that is, where’s your lavatory?”

Crowley waved in the required direction. Aziraphale scurried away and Crowley took his chair back. He stared blearily at his whiskey tumbler until it cringed and obediently turned into a full wine glass, and sipped. 

He needed to think.

‘What if the Almighty planned it this way?’ he’d asked Aziraphale earlier, giving voice to a question that had haunted him since the Beginning, as he and his best friend sat on a bench outside a churchyard in Tadfield, drinking wine and waiting for a bus to take them to whatever was supposed to come next. 

What if this really was how She’d intended for it all to happen? Not merely him and Aziraphale deciding to avert the Apocalypse. Not just the Antichrist turning out to be a completely normal boy, neither good nor evil, and choosing love and family over power. But himself, as well? 

“Is that part of it?” he asked, glancing up at the ceiling. “Was it always supposed to play out this way? Was I always meant to Fall? Even Aziraphale said he wouldn’t put it past You. But if that’s the truth, it follows that me and Aziraphale were meant – Meant – to be friends, were Meant to love the Earth and humanity, were Meant to lo…” He fortified himself with a large gulp before forcing himself to say, out loud, “to _love_ each other... Hell, that You _designed_ us to love each other.

“And y’know what? I wouldn’t put it past You, either. I really wouldn’t. One… eternal joke, that is. That I could spend six thousand years seeing The Great Plan in action and still believe that it’s all for the best.

“I was _there_ , You remember? Of course You remember. At the very beginning, an’ not a Watcher like Aziraphale – I was a Maker. I walked among the stars as they were built and saw the… scope.” He closed his eyes for a second and his face contorted with the anguish of the memory, the pain of something now out of reach. “‘Cosmic’ ‘s a great word, but it doesn’t even come close to the scope. To the… vastness. It’s a shadow. Just a pale shadow of Your vastness.”

He’d meant for that last bit to be sarcastic, but tone, words and sentiment were all too genuine to fool anyone.

“Cruel joke, innit? That I still believe. An’ I know I still believe, even after everything, just because I can’t _not_ believe. I—” The approach of footsteps made the flow of slightly drunken words stop short.

“Oh, that’s going to take some getting used to,” Aziraphale grumbled, coming back into the room. “Apparently – oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude…”

“Nah, s’awright.” Crowley finished his drink and then let the glass hang by its stem from his fingers. “Not like anyone’s actually listening.”

“You, um. You still… talk… to Her?”

“Sometimes.” Crowley snorted softly. “Talking’s not what I’d call it. ‘Screaming questions into the void,’ maybe. Have to keep it angry, makes it sound more like direct disobedience.”

“Why?”

“In case it ever gets back Downstairs. But as long as She doesn’t answer, it doesn’t matter one way or the other. And it’s a one-sided conversation. A very one-sided, very _long_ conversation…” He grimaced and then glared at his empty glass until it vanished, and fell silent. 

Aziraphale, perhaps realizing that he’d heard more than Crowley had intended, withheld comment. 

“Nrgh. What were you saying?”

“Hmm? Oh, that apparently Adam’s idea of how an angel’s corporeal form should function isn’t all that different from how a human body works.” Aziraphale shook himself with a fastidious little grimace. 

Crowley grinned. “Good thing he’s not older. You’d be dealing with a host of other awkward ‘bodily functions.’”

“I don’t need help with those functions, thank you,” said Aziraphale coolly. “I’m quite capable.”

“Is that so?”

“Of course. When necessary. One only has to make an Effort. I’ve—” A massive yawn nearly dislocated Aziraphale’s jaw. 

“Right,” said Crowley, happy to stop that conversation cold. “Bedtime for you.”

He badgered Aziraphale into the bedroom and scowled at him until he took off his shoes and tie and jacket and waistcoat, and by the time that was done, he was bored with scowling and Aziraphale was altogether too tipsy and sleepy to argue, and made no objection to Crowley pulling the covers off the bed, pushing Aziraphale into the bed, and dropped the duvet over him.

“Crowley?”

“Hmm?”

“Did I do the right thing?”

A wave of absurd nostalgia crashed over Crowley. “Angel,” he said warmly, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. “You can’t do the wrong thing.”

“But am I still? An angel?”

Crowley’s hand was right beside Aziraphale’s head. He gazed down at the duvet-covered lump that was half-curled against his side, and then began to softly stroke Aziraphale’s pale silver-gilt hair. 

“You haven’t Fallen. You’d know. You’d feel it. You’d be seeing the world through different eyes.” His lips twitched sideways. “Literally.”

Would he, though? Was Falling now different from how it had gone before? _I always wondered about that name on the bookshop. ‘A.Z. Fell.’ More like a statement than a name. Is that what’s in store for him? Is he planned to Fall?_

_Or is he already Fallen?_

_Did You let him join me on Earth for six thousand years because he’s like me, and literally can’t go back? Are there different kinds of Fallen? Is he meant to—_

“After today… how long do you think we’ve got? They’ll come for us both, you know.”

Inwardly, Crowley groaned. “Aziraphale… look, at least you’ve got somewhere to go. You’ve still got the _option_ of Falling. Me, though…”

“Please don’t.” Crowley felt a hand clutching at the hem of his jacket. “I didn’t mean that.”

“It has to be considered. If this doesn’t work—”

“No.”

“‘No’? You’re more confident than I am. Good job one of us is…”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale looked up at him with an expression that brought him back fifty years and more, filled with longing and regret, and something new. 

Hope. Abject terror... and hope. 

“Will you... come to bed?”

Crowley drew his hand away from Aziraphale’s hair before it could begin to tremble. 

For a fleeting second, the terror on his angel’s face overwhelmed all other emotions, until he realized that Crowley wasn’t retreating, he wasn’t going away. He was simply standing, the better to shift his day clothes into black silk pyjamas, and moving to the other side of the bed. 

_I still have a part to play,_ he thought, pulling the covers back and laying down beside his angel. _**We** still have a part, and a purpose. And until I know what it is..._ His inner monologue wandered off down corridors where words had no meaning, and his thoughts became feelings, and his feelings became convictions, and then he sent them up to God and trusted that She would find them when She decided to look. 

He would keep asking questions, and demanding answers, and loving Aziraphale as much as his blackened heart could stand, and wait. 

At the speed at which a glacier moves, on a day when it’s slept late and is still feeling particularly lazy, Aziraphale moved into the waiting circle of Crowley’s arms. For one terrible second, there was hesitation, and tension, and the convinced uncertainty that nearly made them both draw back. 

And then a shudder passed through Aziraphale’s newly minted and very tired body, and he gave up, fell against Crowley with a graceless slump, pressing his cheek to the patch of bare chest left by the pyjama top. “‘And the light shineth in the darkness,’” Aziraphale whispered, with his lips against Crowley’s skin, “‘and the darkness comprehended it not.’”

Crowley didn’t hear him, but his arms relaxed and shifted, the better to hold Aziraphale closer while his angel slept, and the warmth that grew between them as they drifted off reminded Crowley of a kind of communion, distantly remembered but never forgotten.


End file.
